Saturday, March 1, 2008

VACANT CARNIVAL

            The sharp, well-dressed form of Mr. Campieglo heel-toes his way to the front room of Vini’s Bistro.

            “Your usual table, Mr. Campieglo?” the host asks, smiling widely.

            “Please,” Campieglo replies.

            The host zips quickly in-between tables as patrons whisper to themselves at the sight of Campieglo’s expressionless face.  He descends into the seat that the host offers up.

            “And what would you like tonight?” the host asks, presenting a wine list.  “The ’89?  Possibly our finest ’72?”

            “The ’37.  I’ll need the entire bottle.”

            The host’s welcoming grin turns down.

            “But there are so many to choose from, Mr. Campieglo.  Why not start with the ’59?” he begs.

            “I said the ’37,” Campieglo barks.  “I’m working my way forward tonight, starting with the ’37.”

            “Yes, sir,” the host hisses.  He brushes his pencil-thin mustache with an index finger and scutters off.

            Campieglo’s eyes scan the room before him.  All the same faces again.  All at the same tables, glaring back at him, waiting to see what he will do tonight.  The fat couple at table seven pause from their linguini.  The under-dressed, overly made-up harlot at table 14 occasionally peers up from her soup.  “They want a show,” he thinks, “I’ll give them a show.”

            The host returns with a bottle of 1937 to his table, along with a tall glass.

            “Enjoy, sir,” he says in a less-than enthusiastic murmur.

            Campieglo shoos him away with his left hand and grasps the bottle with his right.  He inspects the label and pops the cork.  His nostrils take in the ancient bouquet as the bottle slips from his fingers, shattering into thousands of pieces as it hits the Montegue, cross-tiled floor.  Every patron in Vini’s snaps their eyes in his direction.  The host is immediately by his side again.

            “Once this is cleaned up, I’ll take your ’38,” Campieglo says slowly, uncaringly.

            “Sire, please,” the host pleads, “we have a vintage port from ’83 that would be much more to your liking.”

            “Do you want my business?” Campieglo screams, full voice.  “Do you?  Because I don’t have to come here!  I come here to spend my money in the way that I am accustomed!   And this is how I would like to spend this night, right here, in this restaurant with a bottle of ’38!  I’m working my way forward!  Do you understand me?”

            The host sweats and begins to notice the other patrons growing more and more uncomfortable with the scene before them.  A small boy appears, scooping up the broken glass with a broom, picking up the larger pieces by hand and sweeping the wine into a nearby drain gate.

            The host soon arrives with the ’38 and Campieglo does the same routine again.  Pop the cork, sniff, then down goes the bottle, smashing into the hard tile.

            “Your ’39, please,” he sighs.

            The ’39 arrives, then the ’40, then the ’41.  By the time the ’45 is at the table, Campieglo is exhausted, but not nearly as exhausted as the host.  Campieglo leaves a $10,000 bill on the table and calmly walks over the remains of the bottles he has discarded.  He lights another $10,000 bill with table three’s candle as he makes his way out the door.

            Out of earshot, the sweeping boy curses his name and the host abruptly swats the boy on the back of the ear.

            “Clean!” the host squawks.  “One day, this will all make sense to you.  Until then, you will clean up this mess!”

            The patrons finish their meals and later tell different versions of the story to their prospective families and friends.  It is a story that is passed down from generation to generation, more details added as time passes.  The story stays alive as long it is told, even when the name Campieglo Wines is long gone.




-SLL

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